Andy McNab - Boy soldier

'What could he say, sir?'

The question was straight and direct but Deveraux didn't get a straight and direct answer.

Fincham was looking through the scanned pages of the notebook, reading Eddie's notes of his conversation with Mrs Meacher. 'We'll go up to Norfolk in the morning and speak to Meacher. Remind him of his loyalties. Official Secrets Act, that sort of thing.'

'If you think it necessary, sir.'

'I do.'

'Then shouldn't we go now?'

Fincham was still looking at the notes. 'Meacher is away sailing. Coming in to Blakeney on the morning tide.'

He went to the window and looked out into the darkness and the slow-moving river Thames. 'I've sailed there myself. It's a difficult entry at the best of times, but highly dangerous in the darkness at low water. He won't risk it tonight; he'll be anchored on the bar just off Blakeney Point now.'

'And this is significant, sir? Only I'm not much of a sailor myself.'

Fincham turned from the window and smiled. 'Highly significant, Marcie. It means that we can both go home and get a few hours' sleep. Be ready to leave first thing.'

Deveraux got up from her chair. 'Very well, sir. I'll see you in the morning then.'

Fincham nodded a goodnight and Deveraux left the room. Fincham waited in the silence for a few moments and then picked up his mobile phone and punched in a number. The call was answered after two rings.

'Yes, sir?'

'Fran, good work tonight, well done.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'But it's brought to my attention a serious security risk. There's more for you to do.'

The last diners had left the hotel restaurant overlooking Blakeney Quay. The last drinkers had made their way from the pub. The last lights in the waterfront cottages had been extinguished.

The team was ready, about to 'borrow' one of the RIBs moored to the quayside. It would have been easy just to steal the boat, power up the engine and hurtle off down the creek towards the sea. But the job Fincham wanted carried out had to look like an accident, so taking the boat had to be done covertly.

The plan was simple. The RIB had been identified and selected an hour earlier, when there was still movement on the quayside. Now it was deserted.

Jimmy had done a walk-by to check that nothing had changed since the boat was chosen. Now he was standing in the shadow of a building on one side of the quay. Mick was out of sight on the opposite side. They had the whole area covered. Fran and Brian were sitting in their vehicle waiting for the go-ahead.

Jimmy got on the net.

'Jimmy's static. All clear.'

'Mick's static. All clear.'

It was time for Fran and Brian to move. Fran went on the net.

'Fran and Brian foxtrot.'

They got out of the vehicle. No interior light came on to attract inquisitive eyes. On the back seat of the car were two red plastic fuel cans. There was an outboard on the RIB but no owner in his right mind would have left fuel in it.

Fran locked the car and they walked towards the RIB. There was no need to talk or look around: Jimmy and Mick were covering them.

Brian climbed down into the boat and then turned and took the fuel containers from Fran, who followed Brian into the RIB. He was already sitting on the boat's rubber side, starting to connect the fuel line that led from the massive Yamaha 75 engine to the first fuel container.

The RIB was tied up to the quay in the conventional way with a knotted bowline, but then doubly secured with a motorbike lock and chain. Fran got busy with her MOE wallet. She put her Maglite in her mouth so she could use both hands and quickly found a key that worked.

The RIB was almost ready to go. All Fran needed to do was study and remember the bowline knot. It had to be retied in exactly the same way when the boat was returned.

Brian slowly removed the two paddles that were latched down on each side of the boat as Fran untied the knot. Then she went on the net.

'That's Fran ready to go.'

'Jimmy's foxtrot.'

He picked up the sports bag at his feet and headed towards the RIB.

Mick was also carrying a bag.

'Mick's foxtrot.'

They reached the quayside together and slowly got down into the boat before opening the bags. Inside were four sets of Gore-Tex jackets and trousers taken from their ready bags.

Fran and Brian pushed the boat away from the quayside and began to paddle gently towards the sea while Mick and Jimmy started to get changed.

For a few seconds Fergus thought he heard the deep rumbling of distant thunder out at sea. But only for a few seconds. Then he realized what was actually happening. The throaty roar of the leading motorbike, instantly followed by the sounds of other engines, told him it was an early morning attack.

Instinctively he dived for his day sack and the pistol he had kept hidden from Danny since the fight outside Foxcroft.

Danny watched, speechless, as his grandfather pulled back the top slide all the way and then let it go, to crash forward back into position. He pulled back the top slide again, but this time just a few millimetres to 'check chamber'. He needed to see that the shining brass case of a round had been picked up when the top slide sprang back into position and was now pushed into the chamber of the barrel, ready to fire. If he had to pull the trigger the last thing he wanted was to hear the 'dead man's click' as the firing pin went forward but had no round to fire.

He let the slide push back into position and, with his right thumb, pushed the safety catch up to safe. He checked the magazine was firmly in place before crouching at a gap in the wooden planking wall to peer outside, trying to get some idea of the number of attackers they were facing.

Danny said nothing, unable to take his eyes off the black pistol nestling comfortably in his grandfather's right hand.

Outside the shed, the roar of the engines got louder and merged with the sounds of shouting voices.

But then Fergus stood up and turned back to his grandson. He saw Danny staring at the pistol but offered no words of explanation about where it had come from. He simply removed the magazine and pulled back on the top slide. The round from the chamber was ejected and went spinning in the air. Fergus caught it in mid air and placed it back in the magazine. The weapon was now made safe and Fergus put both pistol and magazine back in his day sack. 'Come on, we're leaving.'

'But what is it? What's happening?'

Fergus was rolling up his sleeping bag. 'Local dispute. Gang of bikers don't seem to like the Peace and Love brigade as much as you do. Nothing to do with us.'

Danny crouched at the gap in the wall. Across the beach he could see five motorbikes circling the two vans on the beach, their riders shouting and jeering. It looked like a scene from an old Western movie where the Indians circle the wagon train.

As Danny watched, one of the hippies – he thought it was Rupert – emerged from the Transit van and tried to talk over the noise of the roaring engines and jeers. It was useless. A biker rode closer and, without stopping, lashed out with a boot and kicked Rupert in the thigh. The peace-loving hippy crumpled onto the sand.

Danny turned back to Fergus. 'They're hurting them. We've got to help.'

Fergus finished packing his day sack and stood up. 'None of our business and we can't get involved. We'll go the other way up the beach.'

Danny stared in disbelief. 'But we can't just leave them.'

'We can and we are! Now, get your gear and let's go. I told you last night, stick to SOPs.'

'You can shove your SOPs,' snarled Danny, and before Fergus could stop him, he opened the shed door and went running across the sand.

The bikes had come to a standstill and their swaggering riders had switched off the engines and dismounted. Their ginger-bearded leader still reeked of last night's beer. 'We told you to clear out, we warned you, but you didn't listen. Now we're gonna have to show you we won't stand for weirdo scum messing up our beaches.'